Before Tomorrowland by Jeff Jensen

THE ZEPPELIN'S dining room was covered from top to bottom in the most intricately detailed metal and woodwork Lee had ever seen. From his seat at the long cherrywood table, New York's skyscrapers appeared as toys through the room's five round portholes, each as tall as a man, with their brass rings set two feet above the floor. Ms. Earhart sat in one, watching the city drift by while she applied a cold compress to her bare back. Lee tried not to watch out of respect for her privacy, but he couldn't miss the red rash running from her right shoulder blade up to her neck. Behind him, bookcases covered in art deco filigreed glass spanned the inner wall, divided every few feet by thin wall spaces where tall oil portraits of Plus Ultra luminaries hung beneath elegant light fixtures. Above the table, a giant globe light hung stock-still on a thin chain. Lee couldn't figure out what kept it from swinging as the ship banked and swayed through the air, but that was only one of a thousand inexplicable details that had assaulted him since their arrival on board the Pulsar.

One of those bizarre things was the man sitting at the head of the table. Lee and his mom sat on either side of him with a huge amount of fine food between them: swordfish fillets, steamed vegetables (several he didn't recognize), mussels, steaks, baguettes, a fruit salad, and a large bowl of green peas.